


Keep Your Mind Young

by FreshBrains



Series: Crossing You in Style [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles took a small step forward, Derek heard his soft footfall on the carpet.  “I know the town thinks you are a cold person.  Even I think you’re austere on a good day and a downright hostile old wolf on many others.  But I never pegged you as a cruel man, Derek Hale.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Stiles spends a year helping Derek rebuild the old Hale house, and Derek spends a year rebuilding himself.  Their friends collide, a new pack forms, and the modern era kicks everyone's ass.  Early 1900's historical AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is so exciting, guys. I've been working on this fic forever, and I'm finally ready to start posting. The fic itself is 16 chapter and will include two parts of a series. Even when I slow down on posting, I have the bulk of this written already--I just need to do transitional stuff.
> 
> The time period in which I'm writing in will remain unspecified, but due to naming of historical figures and inventions, I'm placing it in anywhere from 1905 to 1915. There _will_ be anachronisms--no doubt about it. And if something just does not sound right, I welcome any and all corrections. I wish I was more of a historian, and I know that some of you are.
> 
> Let me know if any questions arise, and hit me up at [my Tumblr](http://freshbrainss.tumblr.com/). Happy reading!

Cora was always the reader of the family. Even when she was a young girl, she could always be found curled up in the window seat, skirts tucked under her legs, running her index finger down lines of text in whatever book Mother snuck to her from the family library. 

Precocious and cantankerous to the end, still nothing was ever wrong in the world when Cora was in the midst of a story.

Derek, however, never had a knack for the written word. He had no special affection for metaphors and symbols; he had no ear for a line of poetry. He often greeted Cora’s eager suggestions with a polite smile and a gruff, “Maybe later, little sister.”

On an afternoon in late March, the kind of afternoon that is supposed to promise sunshine and dewy grass, the rain poured down from the sky in needle-like torrents and the thunder crackled distantly, making Cora peer above her book every few minutes and cast a worried glance towards the window, which was still covered in heavy winter draperies to keep out the chill.

“This long winter is putting me in a state,” she said. She closed her book and setting it gently on the table. “I haven’t seen the sun in months.”

“The sun was out just yesterday,” Derek said. He shuffled a deck of cards once more, growing restless in the dark, textured confines of the library. “But you were indoors.”

Cora rested her chin on her hands, leaning over in her chair to look at Derek. “You see, brother, I stayed indoors for a reason. I've just finished a wonderful book and I wanted to pass it on to you.” She fluttered over to one of the tall bookshelves and retrieved a novel that was already loose from the stacks, as if she set it there as a prop.

“Oh, Cora, maybe later,” Derek said with a sigh, providing his usual answer, but she just held the book out to him, an expectant smile on her face. He sighed and took the volume from her, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Cora, I know I’m not a budding academic like you, but I’m certainly not ignorant of this story,” he said. He held up the battered copy of Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_.

Cora narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but have you read it?”

Derek sighed. “I’ll start it soon, I promise.” He set the book aside, but Cora crossed her arms over her chest.

“Derek, there’s a storm outside and we’re cooped up in this drafty old house. What else are you going to do this evening?”

Derek sighed again, scratching the beginning growth of his beard. “Fine. Fine, I’ll read your book.”

“Grand. I've marked a passage for you, pay close attention.” Cora sat primly in her chair and returned to her novel, humming a tune to herself in a most un-Cora-like fashion.

Derek opened the book, and on the very first page, in black ink, one sentence was underlined and circled, a dark beacon on the yellowed paper.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife._

Derek closed the book and set it in his lap.

He sighed, deeply, long-suffering.

“Cora,” he started, but didn't know what else to say.

“I was just thinking about how big and lonely this house can be, that’s all,” Cora said flippantly.

Derek handed her the book. “I think I’ll pass on this one, little sister.”

He sat in his chair, shuffled his cards that he barely bothered to remove from the box, and thought about how big and lonely the old Hale Manor truly was.

*

“God bless old Henry Ford,” Stiles sighed as he sunk into one of the white wicker chairs Lydia had strewn around the great lawn behind her home.

Scott grinned and clinked his glass to Stiles’, a confused glint in his eyes. “And why is that?”

“The weekend, Scotty! Come on, you may love your career, but I know you love time spent with your best pals even more.” Stiles nodded towards Allison, who was strolling across the green, arm-in-arm with the hostess. “And I know you love looking at Miss Argent’s new red dress.”

Scott reddened. “Yes, but why Henry Ford?”

Stiles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he was telling a great secret. “Henry Ford wants us to buy his cars to take trips to the beach or the races. He wants us to spend days away from home. So he gives his employees both Saturdays and Sundays off work so they can take their Ford cars and go have fun.” He took a sip of his drink, mixed too strong. “Thus, you get to spend your Sunday afternoons trying to get Miss Argent to bat her eyelashes your way.”

Scott chuckled. “I guess I should start reading the papers in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you out, buddy.”

Scott let his gaze wander back to Allison. “But she does look beautiful, doesn't she? Only Miss Argent could wear red on a Sunday afternoon.” Stiles wanted to poke fun at his friend for being so soft-eyed about Miss Argent, but everyone loved her, and Stiles knew how ardently his best friend admired her.

“Well, I like that!” Erica sat on the chair across from the boys. Her husband followed suit, holding her hand. “Last week, Mr. Stilinski told me I was fast because I wore red gloves to brunch.”

Stiles laughed. “No, Mrs. Boyd, I said you were fast because your décolletage was practically on your plate before the drinks were even served.”

“It’s a good thing I’m a married woman, then. We’re allowed to break the rules sometimes,” Erica teased, lowering her lashes at Stiles. Only Stiles could get away with teasing the new Mrs. Boyd like that without incurring her—or her husband’s—wrath. 

Stiles noticed Boyd dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief, avoiding a worried glance from his wife. She patted him on the shoulder and handed him her drink, which he sipped from gratefully. “Mr. Boyd, are you feeling alright?”

Erica nodded, answering for him. “He’s just fine. We all get a little overwhelmed in the heat during the days before our special time.”

Stiles nodded curtly, biting back a plethora of questions— _why do you think that is, is it related to the rotation of the moon, do you feel the chill in the air differently in the winter months?_

Scott gave him a little pinch in the side anyways, which Stiles answered with a small kick to the shin. His best friend always knew when he had a question on his tongue, and he also knew when that question was best saved for a more private affair.

Lydia approached the group from across the lawn, her pale pink dress like a rose blooming from the grass. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Boyd, why don’t we move our party to the east side of the house? This sun is wilting me like a flower.” She pressed a delicate hand to Boyd’s shoulder and he gave her a grateful smile. 

The party shifted towards the side of the house, following the path lined in tiger lilies and magnolias. Stiles murmured to Scott, “I truly don’t know how Miss Martin does it. She had to be six yards away, speaking to Miss Argent, yet she knew exactly what to say when she approached.”

Scott shrugged, his face coloring a bit as Allison have him a smile from beneath the brim of her hat. “Miss Martin is a special woman. You of all people should know that.”

“True, now I must insist that you catch up to Miss Argent and escort her to a seat before your eyes simply come out of your head and roll across the flower beds.” Stiles gave Scott a little push that sent him tumbling towards Allison, nearly stepping on her skirts.

Stiles suddenly felt a cool arm loop around his elbow. “You know, Mr. Stilinski, our lupine friends often run at a body temperature four-point-three degrees higher than our own. Thus, when they are near the full moon, their body gets warmer, and the sun seems to get warmer as well.”

Stiles shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Miss Martin. Even during a Sunday lawn party, you’re all ears. Do you ever stop investigating?”

Lydia gave him a sweet-yet-deadly smile. “I’ll stop when you stop.”

Stiles patted Lydia’s hand and led her to the chairs on the east side of the house, hidden beneath a cool awning and surrounded in lush green shrubs and trees. “Then it looks like the interrogations will never end.”

The maid brought out pitchers of lemonade and tall glasses of mint drinks. Scott pulled a chair out for Allison, which she took with a smile, and Boyd and Erica waved merrily to Danny, who strode across the lawn, shirtsleeves rolled up the elbow after giving a rather enthusiastic hello to Lydia’s new puppy, named after some horrendous new dress designer who fancied pearls and black, black, black.

Stiles and Lydia stood at the edges of the flagstone patio, watching their friends laugh and smile in the afternoon shade. Stiles looked Lydia in the eye, a smile quirking to his lips. “This could be ours, Miss Martin, if only you’d allow me to present you with a proposal.”

Lydia smiled back and brought his hand to her lips, planting a sweet kiss on the inside of his palm, intimate enough to cause scandal if done in a public place. “You know I cannot accept a proposal from you, so I wish you’d refrain from asking.”

Stiles wasn't serious; they both knew it and there were no ill feelings. But Stiles couldn't help wishing for a bright, welcoming home of his own. He wanted to entertain his friends on Sundays, plan parties and games and trips, he wanted to be included in the groups of men and women who shared details of wedding nights and new babies and grand new homes. It wasn't an outlandish pursuit, and he was still young enough not to abandon hope, but he knew he would not find it with Lydia, who was not only a close and dear friend but a woman whose heart was recently broken.

Lydia wound her fingers through Stiles’ and murmured, “Don’t lose hope. You’ll be engaged by the end of the season, I’ll bet you anything.”

Stiles laughed. “Gambling on the Sabbath. You’re one to be reckoned with.”

Everyone laughed at a lewd joke Erica made and Stiles joined in, even though something cold and hollow ached in the very pit of his stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek realizes he's in over his head, and Lydia gives Stiles the boot when a handsome omega comes to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! Thanks for continuing with me. Next chapter up next Friday.

“My niece has told me you’re interested in taking a mate. Is this true?” Peter lingered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

Derek tossed his papers onto the desk and ran a hand through his hair. “God damn it.”

Peter laughed, striding into the library uninvited. “Calm down. She implied it more than anything. She gave me a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ with your name inked next to the very first line.”

“Of course she did.” Derek slumped in his chair. 

“Not that I’m truly invested in the mundane lives of my nephew and niece, but do you know what spurred on this sudden need for you to fill the house with the smell of mate and pups?”

“Who let you inside, anyways?”

“Mr. Lahey, of course. He’s a handsome one, nephew; maybe you should fill the house with _his_ scent.” Peter flashed him a lascivious grin.

Derek growled in response. “Don’t speak about Mr. Lahey like that.”

Peter put his hands up in defense. “Of course. How dare I insult your pretty little pet. You know, if you’re so dedicated to being a bachelor for the rest of your days, you may want to think about matches for him and Cora. They’re at that age now.”

“I thought you cared little about my affairs.”

Peter smirked. “That doesn't mean I don’t enjoy watching you fail utterly at them.”

“I’m not a matchmaker. I wouldn't know where to start when it comes to finding suitable mates for Cora and Isaac.” Derek attempted to move his papers into his desk drawer so Peter couldn't see his disastrous attempt at record-keeping.

“Oh, so he’s Isaac now? I didn't know you two were so intimate.” Peter leaned forward on Derek’s desk. Derek would see it as a challenge if he didn't know Peter’s provoking ways.

“I don’t refer to my baby sister as Miss Hale, and Isaac is just her age. I see him as my ward and nothing more.”

Peter opened his mouth to chide further, but stopped when he caught a glimpse of Derek’s books. “Good lord, Derek, I’m honestly surprised that this house is still standing with record-keeping like that.”

“It hardly is,” Derek replied sullenly. “I suppose the state of the roof cannot be ignored.”

Peter looked up and jumped in surprise. “I suppose I may have noticed sooner if the sun was shining, but I must agree that that is a very poor state for a roof to be in.”

“Everything is in a poor state. The front door is loose on the hinges, the parlor isn't suitable to entertain, the lawn hasn't been cut in ages.” Derek dropped his head to his hands, too ashamed to look Peter in the eye. “I was raised to be a subservient to an alpha and now I _am_ one. Nobody taught me how to run a household.”

Peter sat down in the chair across from him. “I suppose you shouldn't have killed me the first time around, then.”

Derek ignored him. “Cora and Isaac look up to me. They expect me to keep them safe in this hellhole of a house when I can’t even keep a damn finance book legible.”

“Well, why don’t you light a fire underneath them? Give them tasks, set them to work. The Hale family hasn't had much of a name since…” He trailed off. “You don’t need to be worried about appearances.”

Derek scoffed, motioning towards the ceiling. “Appearances aren't the problem. And Isaac and Cora work hard enough. They do the shopping, cook the meals, light the fires, fetch the water. They’re barely out of childhood and working like dogs already.”

“Then what the hell do you do all day?”

Derek glowered. “You know what I do.” _Keep the area covered, leave my scent, patrol the borders, keep stray packs and omegas away_. “I keep the betas safe.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Speaking of the betas, why don’t you bring one of them around to help you? That’s the point of a beta.”

Derek shook his head adamantly. “You know that is out of the question. It isn't part of the agreement.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, until a crow swooped in through the gaping hole in the ceiling and sat on the edge of the desk before flying into the hallway.

Derek returned to his slumped position, cradling his throbbing head in his hands. “I think I need help.”

Peter nodded again and rolled his shirtsleeves up. “I think I’ll go see about that crow.”

*

“Miss Martin, you know I have the utmost respect for you, your business, and your business partner. But I am about ten seconds away from causing quite the scene,” Stiles said, leaning against Lydia’s brocade desk chair.

Lydia wrung her hands in front of her neat navy blue jacket and skirt, her usual attire for working at the office. “Mr. Stilinski, I would apologize, but I am simply not sorry.” She leaned over her desk to peer outside in the front of the office where a tall gentleman stood with his hat in his hands. “Oh, just look at him. He has the face of an angel.”

“Yes, but the thing is, angels do not need record-keeping jobs. They play harps and sleep on clouds all afternoon and they do not have widower fathers to support.” 

Lydia waved him off, her cheeks coloring as she took another look at the man. “I couldn't refuse him! He came in looking so sweet, like a little puppy dog. I can practically smell it on him, can’t you?”

Stiles nodded begrudgingly. “He won’t last long, anyhow. Omegas never do.”

“Well, then it looks like our little problem is solved. I’ll rehire you in no time. For now, you will escort me outside and look upon me as if I was the most radiant woman on earth and you are proud to merely share my presence.”

“You are an evil woman. I keep wondering when snakes will sprout from your head to turn me to stone,” Stiles muttered as he took her arm and escorted her out of her office, closing the door behind them. “And what is the gentleman’s name?”

“Oh, thank you for waiting, Mr. Duke. I was just speaking to my prior secretary.” Lydia beamed at the man and held out her hand in greeting. Instead of shaking it, which Stiles thought would be more appropriate in an office setting, the man took it and kissed it sweetly, looking her in the eye.

“No worries, Miss Martin. Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?” He held his hand out to Stiles, who took it begrudgingly. 

“Stilinski. I hope you’re prepared to work with Miss Martin and Miss Morrell. They've got quite the business going here and they only accept the best.” He took in the gentleman’s attire—grey wool slacks, black waistcoat, white shirt, grey cap in his hands, not unlike what Stiles wore, except the other man seemed uncomfortable, like he was being degraded. _No working class boy would dare kiss a lady’s hand like that—this boy has fallen far, and fast_. 

Lydia gave him a subtle, sharp elbow jab to the ribs and straightened up before Mr. Duke took notice. “Thank you, Mr. Stilinski, but I think we’ll take it from here.” She patted the side of her softly-plaited hair with her gloved hand, primping sweetly for her new worker. “Please, Mr. Duke, go into my office. I’ll see Mr. Stilinski out and join you in a moment.”

As they walked towards the door, Lydia shot him a tired look. “I noticed it too. I pity him, Stiles,” she murmured, too low for an omega to hear. “He probably came from a wealthy pack, and now here’s here, looking for a job as a record-keeper, and who knows how long he’ll last with that old Argent patriarch lurking about?” She stifled a small smile. “And he’s just so handsome.”

Stiles sighed, stifling his own smile. “He is rather good-looking, I’ll give you that. But Lydia, you can’t take in every stray off the street, especially at the expense of my own job.”

Lydia bit her lip. “Give me a few days and I will find you a new position. Miss Morrell and I do not run the only supernatural private investigating office in the county, you know. I can send out a few letters of recommendation.”

Stiles took his hat from the stand in the doorway. “I think I’ll take my chances around town. Someone must be hiring…a bookkeeper, a teller. I’ll find something.”

Lydia patted him on the back. “You always do. Stop by Scott’s house this afternoon for a call before you go home. He came by earlier asking about you.”

“Will do. Best of luck with—what was his name again?”

“Mr. Duke,” Lydia said dreamily. “Mr. Aiden Duke.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek admits to his pack he needs help, and Scott tells Stiles some wonderful news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was especially fun to write! I always have trouble writing Scott, but I hope I did him justice in this one.

Derek had so few things left in his life that he truly cared about, but he knew with complete certainty that his home was one of them.

“With all due respect, perhaps it would be easier if we simply relocated,” Isaac said, his hands curled in front of him on the table. He wore a tan jacket with too-long sleeves and a heavy white scarf, even though the heat of the summer day was unbearable.

Cora nodded in encouragement. “I’d have to agree.” She got up, walked around the table, and took her brother’s arm. “Today I woke up and my bedroom door was gone. It was just _gone_.”

“And there is a crow in the library,” Isaac added. “A library is no place for a crow!”

“I thought Peter took care of the crow,” Derek said, sighing.

“I think it is quite a problem that there is a crow needing to be taken care of in the first place!” Isaac was frustrated; it rolled off him in waves and practically smacked Derek in the face like a mallet labeled _congratulations, you are a terrible alpha_.

Cora was gentler, rubbing her brother’s shoulders. “You know I love this house just as much as you do. It holds my happiest memories. But look around, Derek. This is a disaster.”

Derek nodded and was quiet for a moment, looking around his home. It was an old house, passed down from generation to generation, and when his mother was alpha, it looked more beautiful than it had in years. She ran a tight household—a cook in the kitchen, footmen in the dining room, a butler and a housekeeper running the show swiftly and evenly, and maids and valets for every aunt, uncle, cousin, and guest. The family wanted for nothing. Every oak and teak surface gleamed in the sun, the wallpaper was changed every season, and the linen was always fresh. 

“It wasn't always like this,” Derek grumbled. He rubbed his temples. “If we hadn't all disappeared at the same time, maybe there would be something to salvage.”

The fire didn't fell the house, but it certainly felled the family. At hardly even twenty years old, it didn't occur to Derek that if he left Beacon Hills after the death of his family, there was simply nobody to take care of the Hale manor. It sat gathering dust, rainwater, mold—anything and everything that could go wrong occurred in only a matter of months. But when Cora showed up at his doorstep in New York at only thirteen years old, dazed, wondering how she got there, there was no question—they belonged in Beacon Hills.

They belonged in their home.

And that was nearly six years prior. He and Cora were tough; born wolves knew how to rough it out, live on the land. But Isaac grew up in a comfortable home (in the material sense), and besides, both he and Cora were getting to the age where it was no longer proper to be sleeping outdoors or drinking from streams (“That was _never_ proper, you idiot,” Peter said with a very dramatic hand gesture when Derek confided in him). 

Cora sat down next to him, her brown eyes soft but still full of fire. “Derek, we are running out of options. Peter wants Isaac and me to move in with him at Hale Place…”

“No, absolutely not,” Derek said. The idea of having his pack live somewhere without him, and with another wolf nonetheless, made his eyes burn.

Isaac exhaled gratefully. “Oh, that’s good. I fear that if I move in with him he’ll mate me without me even noticing.”

Derek bristled. “Isaac, has Peter been overstepping with you? I’ll speak to him about it, there’s no reason…”

Cora rolled her eyes, waving away the subject. “Good lord, Derek, he and Peter already know each other. You don’t need to be so protective.”

Derek gaped blankly as Isaac’s face flashed red. “You better not mean _know_ as in the intimate _know_. Please tell me that’s not what you mean.”

Isaac burrowed his face in his hands, his scarf nearly touching his ears. “Oh, please, may we change the subject? It was one time. And besides, we don’t know…all of each other,” he trailed off, avoiding Derek’s bewildered stare.

Derek sat back in his chair, wondering who he’d have to swiftly murder first. “Out of all the problems I thought I had, you and my uncle engaging in intimacies without being mated was not one of them.”

Both Cora and Isaac burst into surprised laughter. Derek turned his palms to the sky, both in frustration and desperate, silent prayer. “What? What could possibly be funny here?”

Isaac was still blushing furiously, even as he laughed. “I’m glad you think so little of me that you’d believe I would…” his voice lowered, even though it was only the tree of them. “ _Fornicate_ with Mr. Hale.”

“Well then, what did you two do?” Derek asked, not really wanting a true answer but asking anyways because he was a glutton for punishment.

Isaac shrugged. “We kissed. Just once. And it was nice, it wasn't like when the Boyds kiss in town when they think nobody is looking.” He played with the fringe on his scarf. “And we may have done some other things, with hands and such…”

Derek slumped into his chair. “Alright, I think I understand now. Good god, Isaac, you should know better. This is a small town, and Peter’s reputation isn't exactly top shelf.”

“Oh, and the women you've been with have all been winning flowers?” Cora’s voice was tinged with nastiness, and Derek remembered how evil she could be when she set her mind to it. 

“Just a minute now,” Derek said, assuming authoritative posture once more. “My personal life is not on the table for discussion. Weren't we talking about the state of the house?”

“They weren't all bad…there was that pretty brunette musician when you were only a boy, then that horrible woman, then the nice man in New York, and the other nice man in New York, and then Ms. Blake, who we all loved so dearly…” Cora rambled, ticking the names off on her fingers.

Isaac shot him and incredulous and slightly wounded look, which Derek always hated to see because Isaac didn't deserve to ever feel hurt by anyone anymore. “Did you seriously think I gave my virginity to your lecherous uncle?”

Derek rested his head on the kitchen table, wishing for quiet. “If you two are not going to help me figure out what to do with our future, then I am ordering you to be silent.”

There was about three seconds of silence before they both started babbling again.

“Maybe we could buy the old Whittemore house across town-“

“Perhaps a fresh coat of paint outside would do just fine-“

“If Peter had a real roof perhaps I would mate with him, he’s not all bad-“

“Does Peter have indoor bathrooms? I’ve always wanted to try an indoor toilet-“

“Okay, okay, _enough_. That is enough input from both of you, I’m ordering silence anyways.” Derek looked around the table, at the wide eyes of his betas, his family, at how eager and young they looked and how old he felt. He sighed.

Isaac spoke quietly, gently touching Derek’s shoulder, his eyes wide and angelic. “Derek, why don’t I write up an advertisement for the paper? We could hire someone to help fix the house with us. Cora and I will work alongside them.”

Derek wanted to argue; he wanted to disagree with Isaac simply on the principle that he was the alpha and therefore allowed to be prickly and disagreeable. But all the argue was drained out of him, and the thought that both of his betas wanted to keep the old Hale Manor was making him feel soft. So he clapped Isaac on the shoulder and nodded.

“Yes, why don’t you do that.” He felt some of the tension drain out of him, but not much. “And please stay away from Peter while you’re at it.”

*

“Scott! Your old friend is here to see you, please greet me with appropriate evening-hour beverages and some good news.” Stiles strode up the path to the McCall house, which was tucked neatly away in the corner of town by the woods, skirted by a big wooden porch that he and Scott spent many years playing cards as boys. The flowers were in full bloom, popping up quickly after the last winter thaw, and the buds on the trees had long become ripe, green leaves.

Scott was outside in an instant, practically skidding to a halt. His hair was a mussed and his shirt was dirty with grass stains around the cuffs. He offered Stiles the same sloppy, good-natured, boyish grin he’d always greeted him with. “Oh, good, Lydia spoke to you today!”

Stiles bounded up the stairs, wrinkling his nose. “Someone has been running amok in the woods this afternoon. The full moon isn't for days, what’s got you all riled up?”

Scott leaned on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with energy. “I actually have good news. Very, very good news. But it’s secret, so you have to promise you’ll be nice, alright?”

Stiles gasped in mock hurt. “Scotty, I’m wounded. But good news is what I need today.”

Scott gave him a frown, a small show of sympathy that Stiles fully appreciated. “I know, Lydia told me. And for an omega, no less.”

Stiles sighed, letting himself into the house. “I see discretion has gone out the window. How in the world did she tell you if she’s on the other side of town with a dozen hours of work left?”

Scott shrugged, absentmindedly pulling a twig out of his hair. “I went for a run. She always has amazing things to eat in her office, anyways.” Stiles always had to wonder how Scott, one of the strongest and bravest werewolves (or people) he’d ever known, could still be so blindsided by expensive store-bought candies Lydia kept stockpiled especially for him in her desk drawer.

Stiles sat down at the kitchen table, putting his feet up on a chair. “So, let’s hear it, buddy.”

Scott leaned against the table, grabbing an apple from the centerpiece basket and biting into it. “Two things—a secret of my own, and a secret of someone else’s. Which first?” He said through a garbled spray of apple.

Stiles grimaced, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Give me yours.”

Scott grinned, taking a rather smug bite of apple. “Miss Argent has requested my company at her home tomorrow evening. Her father would like to meet me.”

Stiles whistled, not even trying to hide his grin. “Look at you go! You’ll be raising the world’s most frightening brood of children in no time. Will they be hunters or werewolves, or an eclectic mixture of both? Perhaps they can choose when they come of age.”

Scott socked him in the arm, but not too hard. “Let’s not get ahead. We have peace in Beacon Hills, so what would be better than a marriage alliance? And Miss Argent…” Scott looked off into the distance, his eyes glittering.

Stiles cleared his throat. “Sure, I suppose, but you’re forgetting that you’re not in the official Beacon Hills pack. So a political alliance wouldn't hold much weight.”

It was the conversation begging to be had, but so rarely touched upon in their circle of friends. It couldn't be ignored that two of them—Erica and Boyd—shared an alpha, one of them—Scott—was in rivalry with that alpha, and one of them—Allison—hated that alpha. The alpha’s uncle wasn't very popular, either (especially if Lydia was consulted on the subject).

For such an important person, the alpha in question hadn't spoken to any of them in years.

Scott shook the idea away, letting nothing dampen his giddiness. “I haven’t told you the second secret yet.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Scott smiled, warm and big, the smile that made Stiles remember every day why they were very best friends. “Erica is going to have a baby in the spring.”

Stiles sat up straight in his chair, warmth blossoming in his chest. He stared at Scott for a moment, mouth agape. “You aren't joking, are you? I’ll throw you on the floor if you’re joking.” 

Scott laughed out loud, head tilted back. “I’m not joking, I swear to god! Boyd told me this afternoon. He’s been quite nervous about it lately, and the full moon isn't helping. But now I suppose he’s letting the rest of us worry along with him.”

Stiles stood up, energy racing along his nerves, making it impossible to sit still. He ran a hand through his hair, and even though he knew Scott could tease him, he let a huge, giddy grin cross his face. “I can’t believe it. It seems like just yesterday we were children finishing our lessons.” He looked at Scott, hands held out in excitement. “A baby, Scott!”

Scott held his arms out, and they hugged, laughing.

They were both fond of children—Scott because he was fond of everyone and everything, always having a smile or a kind word at the ready, especially loving those small and defenseless. Before he became a werewolf, he suffered from bad lungs, spending days in bed under his mother’s careful watch. He knew what it was like to be vulnerable to the world, and now that he had power in his body, he devoted much of his life to caring for others.

Stiles was a bit more cautious in his affections. He was an only child, like Scott, but he felt the loneliness a bit sharper after Scott was bitten. He considered his friends his siblings, but he didn't feel a kinship towards the werewolves the way Scott did. There wasn't a common bond, a bite from the same blood that filled in the gaps the way they did for Scott. Stiles had only one person he was that connected to—his father. He longed for the day when he had a sweet, loving, gentle partner at his side and sweet, loving, gentle children in his arms.

It wasn't something he often expressed, but Stiles just wanted to take care of someone. 

As he and Scott hugged, Stiles thought of a new baby, the first their circle would have. He thought of pudgy cheeks and round fists, dark ringlets and toothless smiles. He wondered what their first word would be, what color dresses and booties he would buy, if the baby would enjoy a rattle or a rocking horse or a nice set of wooden building blocks like Stiles himself had as a little boy.

“A _baby_ ,” he said again, softly, smiling into his best friend’s neck.

They hugged for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I have this weird headcanon where Peter is a total sleazy douche to Isaac and Isaac is like _you wish creeperwolf_. Chapter Four up next Friday!


	4. Chapter 4:  Derek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek gets a visit from an old friend, who bears exciting news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is only Derek's point of view, but it will be in two parts--Stiles will be chapter four, part two. This week has been insane with school, so the people who stayed with me after I didn't post last week are lovely. I miss summer, when real life didn't get in the way so much.

Derek woke the next morning feeling better than he’d felt in years. There was an itch low in his belly, an excited feeling usually reserved for small children waiting for Santa Claus, and he couldn't quite place it until Cora appeared in his study at noon and announced, “Mrs. Boyd is here to see you, shall I send her up?”

Derek shook his head. “Can you set the tea table in the kitchen? It’ll be better than the parlor.”

Cora nodded and bustled downstairs. Derek breathed deeply and smelled something new, something fresh and sharp, and he followed quickly behind her.

Isaac was already in the foyer with his arms wrapped tightly around Erica—Mrs. Boyd, Derek had to correct himself, she was a married woman—and they were whispering to each other. Derek tuned it out, not wanting to intrude on what was a werewolf version of a behind-closed-doors conversation, but caught a word here and there.

“Missed you—“

“Too long—“

“Look beautiful—“

He stood at the top of the stairs and watched for a moment, and the excited itch in his stomach ebbed. _This is what it should be like_ , he thought. _This is what pack looks like_. But instead…

“Derek?”

Erica’s voice snapped him out of his melancholy. He looked down at her and didn't bother disguising the tears that pricked his eyes. She looked so much older and so much rosier than the last time he got to see her (and it had been too long). She stood in a nice dark blue travelling dress, her skirts a bit dusty from the walk in the woods, and her dark blond hair was mussed from her hat. But her smile—Derek missed her smile, and it reminded him of how few smiles he truly saw during his days. He hurried down the stairs and opened his arms to her, and she all but leapt into his embrace.

“I’m happy to see you here, Mrs. Boyd,” Derek said earnestly, wrapping himself in her scent.

“Oh, I miss you…even though you’re nothing but a grumpy old man,” Erica laughed, her breath hot on his neck. She pulled away and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. “My god, Derek, you look like you've aged fifteen years.” She pressed a palm to his cheek and he nuzzled into the touch, nearly preening at the comfort of one of his true betas—even though he could not claim her as his own.

Then that sharp, fresh, clean smell filled the air again—it smelled like family, like warmth and comfort, and a bit like fresh milk and snow. Derek opened his mouth in surprise, and Erica laughed.

“I’ll have her in the spring,” she said, wiping her eyes with her black gloves with one hand and smoothing a palm down the front of her dress with the other. “Mr. Boyd tells me I shouldn't claim her as a girl yet, but I just know.”

“A mother wolf always knows,” Derek assured her. He sobered a bit, and so did Erica. “Did you bring a chaperone?”

Erica nodded and gestured towards the kitchen. “Dr. Deaton is here with me. He’s speaking to Isaac.” She rolled her eyes, and suddenly Derek saw the lost, fiery young woman he helped four years before. “I feel absolutely ridiculous carrying a chaperone around. I’m a married woman for god’s sake, not a child.”

“You know the rules,” Derek said. “If we want to see each other at all, the emissary must be present.”

“Well, the good doctor is much better than the hunters,” Erica said dryly. “I had to approach that old Mr. Argent about visiting you and we nearly came to blows.”

Derek almost growled at the name. “He doesn't have as much influence as he thinks he does. Next time, go straight to Dr. Deaton. He can set it up.”

“Let’s stop for a moment before we join the others,” Erica said, her voice low. They paused in front of the kitchen door, which was almost off the hinges and covered in horrible red paint Derek found in the basement. “Derek, I've been hearing word around town that things aren't going so well for you. What is going on here? Is the pack alright?”

Derek nodded towards the door. “You know they can hear us.”

Erica waved away the subject. “It doesn't matter. You’ll just tell Isaac and Cora about it later, anyways. And if they were _good little werewolves_ ,” she said, raising her voice, “they wouldn't eavesdrop on a conversation between alpha and beta.”

Derek smiled. “In case you were wondering, they’re still afraid of you.”

“Who isn't?” Erica responded cheekily. “And Isaac was never afraid of me; he simply worships the ground I walk on, which is completely acceptable.” She sighed and looked up at Derek through her eyelashes, a show of respect that usually only came with a true alpha-beta relationship. “Please tell me, Derek. Mr. Boyd and I, we’re doing quite well for ourselves. If you are ever in need of assistance or financial support of any kind…”

“Please, you know I cannot accept,” Derek said through clenched teeth, humiliation rising in his throat. Accepting love and support from betas was one thing, but accepting charity was another story. _Have I really fallen this far_?

“Scott told us that you were living here like animals. You don’t have running water, or electric lights. Many homes do not, but none like Hale Manor.” Erica paced in front of the doorway, worrying her gloves in her hands and she pointedly ignored Derek’s rising discomfort. “Cora doesn't talk to any of the other ladies in town, and we all know women our age need female friends. And you—you hardly make an appearance once a month, despite being a very prominent name in Beacon Hills. And Isaac…Derek, people are talking about Isaac and your philandering uncle! The rumors are _preposterous_!”

Derek’s face reddened, and Erica’s eyes widened. “Derek, _no_ …Isaac and Peter? _Really_?”

“ _It was only once_ ,” Isaac wailed from the kitchen, and with that, Erica pushed open the door with a deep sigh.

“Alright, we’re all going to sit down together and have a conversation. Dr. Deaton, if we must, can you do the honors?” Erica sat down in the chair offered by Isaac. 

Everyone looked to Deaton, who cleared his throat. “You know I must.” Deaton glanced at Isaac and hesitated. “The entire pack is supposed to be here, or is there a problem?”

“I always like to make a dramatic entrance,” Peter said from the doorway before swooping in and taking a seat next to Isaac, straddling a backwards kitchen chair like a schoolboy. He nodded at Isaac with a cocky half-smile. “Well aren't you looking handsome today, Mr. Lahey?”

“Oh, you’re disgusting,” Erica spat with a sneer, a hint of yellow rimming her brown eyes. Isaac simply rolled his eyes and moved his chair further towards Cora.

Peter looked at Erica and sniffed the air dramatically, a show of incredibly poor manners among werewolves. “Oh, little Miss Reyes, all grown up and stuffed with a pup. Glad to have you back.”

“Don’t speak to Mrs. Boyd like that!” Cora snapped, surprising Derek. She and Erica had hardly even met before; Derek wondered why she’d encourage her uncle’s anger by standing up for a woman she hardly knew.

“Peter, when you’re in my home, you treat my betas with respect,” Derek growled.

“I’d hate to interrupt,” Deaton said from where he stood next to the wash tub, in a voice that clearly stated he did not mind interrupting and that he would rather be anywhere else but in that kitchen, “but I have an appointment at noon. May we go over the formalities if everyone is here?”

Derek did a quick head count, one that left him even more deflated than before. He only had three betas—Peter, Isaac, and Cora, and only one of them was a beta of his making, which reflected poorly on any alpha. All were in attendance, and all were angry for their own reasons. He nodded at Deaton. “Yes, please continue.”

Deaton stood over the table and opened his giant leather-bound book. “I, Alan Deaton, emissary of the Hale pack, authorize a pack meeting between all members of the Hale pack and Mrs. Erica Boyd, formerly Erica Reyes, a beta werewolf sired by Hale Pack Alpha Derek Hale four years prior. This meeting is validated by me as well as Miss Allison Argent, matriarch of the Beacon Hills Hunters.”

Derek snorted in derision; everyone else followed suit, including Deaton. Miss Argent was a fine, kind, gentle woman, and an excellent huntress, but everyone knew she was still under her grandfather’s thumb. 

“As of January 25th, 19--, the Beacon Hills Hunters and the Hale Pack signed a treaty with one another, still effective to this date. This treaty entails that the Hale Pack has been seen as responsible for the deaths of Kate and Victoria Argent as well as the unlawful biting and turning of four Beacon Hills children. This treaty also entails that the Beacon Hills Hunters are responsible for the deaths of the Hale family, including the prior Alpha, Talia Hale.

“The treaty states that the Hunters will not encroach on the woodland territory of the Hale pack or become involved in any of the pack’s affairs. Furthermore, all werewolves who enter Beacon Hills are the Hale pack’s responsibility unless Alpha Hale turns them over to the Hunters’ authority. Is this treaty clear to both parties today?”

Derek nodded, and Erica followed suit.

“The final limit of this treaty states that beta werewolves Scott McCall, Vernon Boyd, and Erica Boyd must remain independent of the Hale Pack due to lack of legal consent during time of bite. This limit was re-examined two years ago when the beta werewolves came of age, but the repeal request was denied by the Beacon Hills Hunters. This limit may be negotiated once more in two years’ time. Is this limit understood?”

More nodding, but much more somber. Derek’s jaw ticked with anger, but he knew better than to argue the treaty with Deaton—Deaton was on their side, after all.

Deaton continued. “This meeting must meet the following Code-Werewolf Treaty limits and stipulations: Mrs. Boyd will not make an attempt at becoming part of the Hale pack, Derek Hale will not make an attempt to lure Mrs. Boyd into his pack, and all pack members will understand that contact with Mrs. Boyd will end when this meeting is adjourned. Are these limits and stipulations understood?”

This time, Derek answered with a growl and Erica with a disdainful sniff. Isaac discreetly took Erica’s hand and squeezed it.

Deaton sighed and leaned back against the washtub, crossing his arms. “Well, now that we have that out of the way, let’s discuss the reason for our meeting today. Mrs. Boyd?”

Erica cleared her throat. “As someone so rudely pointed out at the start of this meeting, I will be expecting a child in the spring. And I've come to ask for the child to be protected by the Pack and the Hunters under the treaty.”

A silence washed over the table—Derek suspected she’d be inquiring about the safety of her child, but he still wasn't prepared with an answer. 

Peter scoffed. “Are you really naïve enough to believe that the Argents will agree to that? The only way is to have the child be a part of the pack.”

Derek looked at Erica with raised eyebrows. “Mrs. Boyd, you don’t presume to have me—“

Much to Derek’s chagrin, Erica (along with Isaac, Cora, and especially Peter) actually laughed. “Oh good lord, I should hope not! Derek, you’re a good man, but nobody in their right mind would give you a baby.” 

“Isn't that nice,” Derek grumbled, even though he knew she was right.

“I’m serious, though. My child has nothing to do with the tensions between you and Gerard Argent. She’s innocent in all of this, but she isn't going to be born into an innocent world. We all know that.” She slid her eyes to Peter, who gave her a cat-like grin. “I don’t want much. I just want to know that she’s safe.”

“And that is a perfectly reasonable request,” Deaton said in his usual calm and reassuring voice. He was fond of children but never had any of his own. “Do the Argents know about the child?”

Erica shook her head. “Not yet, though I think old Argent suspects. He’s foul, but he’s cunning.”

Deaton rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Mrs. Boyd, are you familiar with the way our emissary system works when it comes to new wolves?”

“Not as familiar as I’d like to be.”

“Well, it’s a sticky process. I’m the emissary to Mr. Hale and I have sworn loyalty to him and his pack. His family and I have a very complex history. But unfortunately, as you and Mr. Boyd are not part of this pack, I cannot act as emissary on your behalf alone. In turn, as Derek is not related in any way to your unborn child, I cannot swear an oath to protect you without breaking my loyalties with him.”

Erica looked dejected for a moment, but Deaton continued. “However, since you and Mr. Boyd are a pack of your own, you are able to have an emissary. If this emissary worked with me, I could make sure that your child is protected under both Mr. Hale and myself.”

Isaac looked baffled. “What a mess.”

“It would actually work out well,” Derek mused, nodding in understanding. “Emissaries have no boundaries between one another.”

“So I’ll have my child, and the only way she’ll be protected is if she has some sort of druid nanny watching after her all the time?” Tears were forming in Erica’s eyes—if there was anything she detested, it was being dependent on others.

Deaton suppressed a smile. “Druids make the best nannies, you know. Emissaries understand werewolves as well as any human can, and we respect the relationship between parents and their pups. Mrs. Boyd, this will work. We won’t let you do this alone.”

The kitchen was quiet for a moment, everyone deep in a contemplative lull. Peter picked at his nails, and Cora reached across the table for Erica’s hand, who squeezed back gratefully. 

Derek was the first to speak. “How do we go about finding an emissary for the Boyds?”

Erica smiled and looked up at Derek. Derek swallowed heavily—her gaze was sincere, delicate, almost reverent. She still saw him as her alpha.

“Leave that to me,” said Deaton, fetching his coat and briefcase from the dusty kitchen counter. “I have just the person in mind.”

Derek was too happy to bother asking who it was.


	5. Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this fic! I'm just an incredibly slow writer. Things will pick up soon. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Stiles sat at his kitchen table with his suspenders and tie loosened and his hair in all sorts of disarray. He leaned forward on his elbows and examined the current issue of The _Beacon Hills Gazette_ , which covered the entirety of the oak surface. 

“It seems like everyone needs an errand boy and nobody needs a typist,” he grumbled, nearly tipping his cold cup of coffee over with his arm.

“Maybe you should buy a new pair of shoes and start running errands, then,” Sheriff Stilinski said wryly, scooping the coffee cup away to avoid further destruction.

“Not helping,” Stiles said, and circled another advertisement for a shoeshine boy. “I sure hope that handsome new omega in town is worth all this trouble.”

“Oh, so he’s handsome now? I thought he was that awful boy who stole your Miss Martin away,” Sheriff Stilinski said, sitting down next to Stiles.

“I can appreciate a handsome face. And I don’t think Lydia is able to be stolen from anyone.”

“Maybe I can get you a position down at the office. I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” 

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t think I could bear the indignity of being a fully-grown man and going to work each day with my father.”

“Lawyers do it all the time,” Sheriff Stilinski said cheerfully, slapping his son on the shoulder. 

“But we’re not lawyers.” Stiles shoved back his chair and pulled his suspenders back up over his shoulders. “I can’t go without a job for another week. I won’t be able to give you any money.”

The Sheriff turned and gave Stiles a stern look, a look that said _you may be an adult but you still have to mind me_. “This is my house. This is my food. I only choose to let you stay here. And that choice doesn’t have conditions. I _want_ you here, you don’t need to pay me. Count your blessings.” He rested his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles grasped his father’s fingers, a gesture that called back to his childhood.

“I _want_ to work. You know how I get. When business was slow at the agency I’d be climbing the walls by Tuesday. Now it’s been three days and I’m already set for the mad-house.”

Stiles had the kind of childhood most children would be envious of—he attended school with his friends and neighbors, he had two loving parents who cared for him and provided for him, and he was able to live in a home where he wanted for nothing for most of his life. But when things were normal for Stiles, they were always slightly too fast for others. He always seemed to think quicker, speak quicker, walk quicker—he was born that way. Sometimes his thoughts outran his mouth, other times his words got jumbled and he couldn’t sit still or focus on his schoolwork. It cost him a lot of slapped palms and boxed ears as a child in the classroom, which set him even more on edge.

As an adult, Stiles was still quick—quick on his feet, quick with a joke. He did his work swiftly, if not sometimes a little clumsily. But those childhood scoldings from teachers and later college professors left an imprint on him. If he was going to be too hasty, he needed to be hasty with things that mattered.

That’s why he loved his position at Martin  & Morell’s, working with one of his closest childhood friends and his former schoolteacher. Lydia and Marin ran the operation swiftly and smoothly, taking care of anything that needed to be taken care of, and Stiles was the man in charge of greasing the wheels. He was the one making sure the paperwork was done and the appointments were penciled in, but he was also their trusted assistant, their confidant, their friend. He liked feeling important. He liked _doing_ things to feel important. He never wanted to be a burden.

“I think you need to put all of this energy into something new,” Sheriff Stilinksi told Stiles gently. “You need to find something and do it for yourself, not for Lydia or Scott or any of your other friends.” His father knew him better than anyone. After Stiles’ mother passed when he was only a boy, Stiles and his father became closer than ever. 

Stiles nodded, tracing the red circles he scribbled around advertisements for various jobs around town. “I suppose you’re right, as much as I loathe admitting it.”

The sheriff chuckled. “That’s my boy. Stick with me, son, you’ll learn all sorts of tricks of the trade.” He grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall and adjusted his gun belt. “I’m heading off to see Miss Martin myself this afternoon. You can join me if you’d like.”

Stiles looked up again, brow knitted in confusion. “Why are you seeing Miss Martin today? Did she telephone the station for you?”

“She did yesterday afternoon. Said she wanted to do some checking up on a few new folks who moved to town.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, much to his father’s disapproval. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. She’s getting you to check up on her new beau for her. She’s truly shameless.”

The sheriff suppressed his grin. “That may be true, but there’s a whole group of them who moved into the apartment complex above the Argent family. A blind man seems to be the leader, and there’s a married couple along with the twin boys, one of which has taken an interest in Miss Martin.”

Stiles sat back in his chair, huffing out a sigh. “Father, it sounds like they’re a pack. They’re like Scott, only…”

“Together. Yes, son, I’m aware.”

Stiles told his father all about Scott and the bite earlier that season, mostly due to the mess involving the Argent family three or four years prior. There was a lot of speculation at that time and a lot of arrests were made, and it was finally time for Stiles to have faith in his father and introduce him to the strange, fascinating world of lycanthropy. Sheriff Stilinski took it all in stride in much the same way he took all of Stiles’ surprises—with a long-suffering sigh and a fatherly clap on the back.

Stiles gestured towards the table. “I think I’ll stay here for a while, maybe look for a position with books somewhere.” When the sheriff frowned, Stiles continued. “Something I _enjoy_. Something for myself, I promise. Be careful of that pack. They’re not all like Scott, or like…” Stiles trailed off, and the sheriff nodded.

“Of course.”

As the door closed and the fresh air dissipated once more, Stiles sighed in exasperation and ran a hand through his already unkempt hair. “Now, who needs a bookkeeper?” Just as he was about to sit back down at the table, there was a knock at the door. “Come on in,” he called, guessing it was either Scott or Mrs. McCall. It was always one of them.

The door opened slowly, and an familiar face peeked inside. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles smiled in surprise and opened the door wider. “Dr. Deaton! Come in, you aren’t bothering me at all. I need a break from the job search.” He stood and took Deaton’s coat and hat, gesturing for him to sit in the kitchen chair. “How is my best friend treating you at the office?”

“He’s my best employee, of course. Nothing but good words. And I’m happy to say your job search may come to a close if you’ll accept the offer I have for you.”

Stiles poured Deaton a cup of coffee and joined him at the table. “I’m afraid to say I’ve never had the magic touch with animals, doc.”

Deaton hid a smile and shook his head. “This is a special job, Mr. Stilinski. One involving my alternative profession.”

This got Stiles attention immediately. He perked up, looking like an eager groundhog with his messy hair. “Oh. Oh, the _alternative_ profession, yes. I must admit I’m a little surprised that you’ve come to me for that one as well.”

“I know you aren’t tied to a pack, but you are friends with many of the local werewolves, and Scott always tells me how you’re going to be his emissary someday.”

Stiles laughed, but he flushed with pride. “Oh, he’s just being a good friend. I don’t have the talent—or resources, for that matter, to be an emissary. I type documents and make appointments, I’m not exactly out in the field.”

Deaton shook his head. “I wouldn’t sell yourself so short. You’ve gotten Scott and his friends out of several scrapes around town, and you know how to keep a cool head in a crisis.” He looked out the window, as if he was embarrassed to be so candid. “And I started out sweeping hair in my uncle’s barber shop. We never know where life will take us. So I’m proposing a position with me as an emissary apprenticeship, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles didn’t even bother hiding his grin. “Well, that is certainly unexpected. I’m honored. Did Scott put you up to this?”

Deaton shook his head. “No, I actually haven’t even mentioned it to Mr. McCall yet. Instead, you’ll be working with the Boyd family.”

Stiles knit his brow. “The Boyds? I just saw them, they didn’t say a thing. Certainly they wouldn’t choose _me_ as an emissary.” He squinted at Deaton—his thoughts were going a mile a minute again. “Wait, I thought _you_ were emissary to Mr. and Mrs. Boyd.”

Deaton folded his hands on the table, ever the patient professional. “I’m afraid this is a small step in a rather fragile inter-pack situation. You see, Mrs. Boyd requested extra protection due to personal matters—“

“The baby!” Stiles blurted, slapping his palm down on the table. He should’ve known the pregnancy would make waves in the delicate structure of the supernatural world. He cleared his throat and calmed himself. “I mean, yes. I do know about that matter, my apologies. Extra protection, why?”

Deaton sipped his coffee and looked up at Stiles, like he couldn’t gauge the man’s coming reaction. “Mr. Stilinski, since you and Mr. McCall are such intimate friends, I’m sure you’re aware of the relationship between the Beacon Hills omega werewolves and the Hale family pack.”

Stiles inhaled sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. He knew _exactly_ how he felt about the Hales. “I’m aware. I have little to say in favor of that pack, and so help me God, if they’ve put Mrs. Boyd in a compromising situation…”

Deaton shook his head. “Nothing like that. In fact, Mrs. Boyd requested _their_ protection for her child, when the time should come.”

Stiles huffed, a little annoyed. Erica had her husband and Scott, she had Lydia and Morrell at her service, she had Allison and the hunters to protect her. Why would she ever need that Hale family, holed up in the woods with their shifty ways and unethical practices and practically feral way of life? Stiles was in no way an aristocrat, but he didn’t go to town with his shirtsleeves unbuttoned and his pant legs rolled up like Peter Hale, for heaven’s sakes, and his mother would roll over in her grave if she ever saw the tangle of Cora Hale’s hair beneath her summer bonnet. 

Stiles had so little affection for the Hale family, all stemming from the way they raged into town and changed his friends’ lives forever without a second glance. First it was Peter Hale, running around in the woods like a wild man, who attacked Scott and started the whole epidemic. Scott thought he was going insane for weeks; Stiles was there with him while he hid and cried, thinking he was possessed by something evil. The _Hales_ were responsible for that fear.

But the one Stiles really couldn’t abide was Talia Hale’s eldest son, the brutish and brooding Derek Hale, who snatched Erica, Boyd, and Isaac Lahey up and bit them into werewolves like they were playthings he found hidden in the grove. It was illegal, of course, and highly frowned upon in the supernatural community (according to Deaton and Morrell and more importantly, the local hunters), and there was a treaty signed by all parties agreeing on a separation between the bitten wolves and the Hale pack until further noted. When they all turned eighteen, someone brought up changes to the treaty, but was denied by Gerard Argent.

And Stiles didn’t like the way Derek looked at him before, before the treaty and the pact, when Scott went to him for answers. Derek’s eyes wandered a bit too much.

And after all that, Erica wanted their help? Stiles didn’t approve of it, but he had to admit, the Hales were a powerful entity in Beacon Hills. They’d been on the land longer than anyone in town, and they were a force to be reckoned with. 

Stiles took a deep breath and thought of his lovely friend and her kind husband, and the beautiful child they were bringing into the world. “So how would my being Mrs. Boyd’s emissary win the Hales' and hunters' favor?”

Deaton explained the logistics of the deal, the terms and stipulations, and Stiles had to admit, it made sense. He wouldn’t have to look for a job anymore, and it was the perfect opportunity to start training with a pack—someday, when Scott realized his full potential, he’d form a second Beacon Hills pack with all of the omegas. And Stiles could be their emissary. 

He could be a part of their family. It was worth dealing with the Hales.

“So, Mr. Stilinski. Would you like to accept the offer?”

Stiles grinned, and shook Deaton’s hand. “I’d be honored.”


End file.
